


Absence of Blade

by Ozymanreis



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous Motives, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Arguing, Big Brother Mycroft, Fencing, Fencing as a metaphor, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Overprotective Mycroft, Protective Mycroft, Protectiveness, Relationship is more of the premise and background in this fic, Swordfighting, Ultimatums, more about the adversarial nature of Jim and Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 12:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5828365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both love Sherlock. And by extreme coincidence, both believe the other is the worst possible thing for him. Agreement may be impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence of Blade

**Author's Note:**

> _The situation in a bout when the opposing blades are not touching; opposite of engagement._

Sherlock Holmes prided himself on being a cold, logical human being, guided by reason. However, that didn’t mean impulse, especially in the heat of a case, couldn’t leap in. Such instances included chasing after a cab with a potential serial killer in it, interrupting the Black Lotus during their “interrogation” of Watson, inviting the infamous Moriarty to a potentially deadly meeting, going to a mall on Black Friday in America, and so on.

Jim Moriarty was much the same. He rarely did things without assessing all possible angles and outcomes (the exception to the rule, of course, being a sexy roguish detective).

Perhaps the most reckless thing they’d ever done was… well, each other.

Neither was entirely certain how it came to be. It just was. And in a way, that neither of the consultants could properly explain, it always had been. Non-case weekends were reserved for exotic vacations, far away from any friends, clients, or surveillance.

Yet it was a fact of statistics: the longer something went on, the greater the chance of failure. Inevitably it would reach 99.99 ad infinitum percent. It hadn’t gone on _quite_ that long, but they were found out. A small mercy was that it hadn’t been by a gossip.

A large cruelty, however, was that it was Mycroft.

There was nothing so brash as a chastising, public flogging, or even an in-person confrontation.

While Jim wasn’t around, Sherlock got a text:

 

**Either you end your arrangement with Mr. Moriarty, or I will be forced to take action. -MH**

 

Simple. To the point. Sherlock reported that his brother most likely had a dental appointment that day. And that “forced to take action” most certainly meant arresting and torturing Jim. Without trial, of course, since there was no proof to hold him.

Oh, what a wonderful democracy they lived in.

Then again, when did Jim ever respect the law? He chewed his lip through Sherlock’s explanation. “Are you going to end things, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He’s threatening _you_. I figured it should be your decision.”

Jim laughed, grinning wide, “Oh, I see. Not exactly the noble white knight everyone believes you to be.” Because the answer was obvious, really, to anyone who really _cared_. Or perhaps Sherlock just placed his autonomy above all else.

“You knew that.” Either way, it made Jim want to leave him even less.

“I did.”

 

* * *

 

It was another impulse. Take the bull by the horns. Fortune favors the brave. All manner of clichés and proverbs suggested it was the best course of action to take.

Moriarty took his Verano. Fast enough that he could make a quick escape, but nothing so flashy he could be easily identified.

For being the most unreachable man in London, the head of MI6 was surprisingly easy to track down. His house! Of all places. Jim had been lead to believe the man was an ardent workaholic. And while his lovely partner wasn’t a machine, the consulting criminal was certain that if anyone _would_ turn out to be made of circuitry, it’d be the intimidating arse, in all his paunchy glory.

But Jim supposed that everyone had to take a break now and then, constant three-piece suits notwithstanding. He took a roundabout path, making extra turns, procrastinating on his mission some. Mycroft didn’t _scare_ him.

Certainly not.

As he finally pulled into the man’s driveway, a faint chill ran up his spine. It was something akin to a manor — large, obtrusive, crisp, clean, white, dark ivy growing up the walls. Fit the man.

He waited, gripping the steering wheel, leaning back against the headrest. Even the _door_ was ostentatious : mahogany, almost medieval in construction.

Still in the car, Jim watched as the door slowly swung open. A thin man stepped out onto the welcome mat, wearing a tux, hair slicked back. Jim didn’t recognize him, but the (what he assumed to be) butler stared at him, head tilted softly, hands folded.

Well. He couldn’t just sit there all day.

He left the car, slow as possible. Approaching the entrance, the man nodded once. “Good day, Mr. Moriarty. I was told to expect you.”

_Were you…_ Jim mused bitterly, noting that he _apparently_ wasn’t spontaneous as he thought. Wanted to be. “How nice.”

He nodded indulgently, stepping aside, “Please. Come in.”

Jim stepped past him, the smell of baby’s breath and citrus hitting his nose.

“May I take your jacket, sir?”

It felt too _normal_. Pre-determined. Like everything around him was being orchestrated by a steady, porcelain hand. One that wasn’t Jim’s. Some discomfort was understandable. “It’s fine. I don’t plan on staying long.”

“Of course.” He nodded, closing the door. “Tea? Master Holmes is almost done, if you’d like to wait.”

Again, disconcerting. Everything too nice, the garnish trying to hide the underlying sinister nature of his visit. “That’s fine. Take me to him now.”

“As you wish, sir.” The man nodded once, gesturing down the adjacent hall.

First impression was that the house was too big. Second impression was that the house was _far_ too big. Jim’s footsteps even echoed down the walls, up to the high-arching ceilings.

Down the hall, turn to the right, down a few steps, but the windows told him he was still quite above ground. _House on a hill, how quaint._ Jim’s thoughts did little to ease his nagging nerves.

The sound of quick, measured _whaps_ hit Jim’s ears, each a few seconds apart. A thin metal rod, whipping through the air, struck thick cloth. He and the servant turned the corner, passing a doorframe, arriving at yet another scene of uptight excess: a large room with picture windows, sunlight trickling down on a long stretch of matting.

On it, Mycroft rested in perfect _en garde_ stance, fencing jacket perfectly fitted, a sabre held tight in his grip, wrist loose. He advanced a few steps, lunges, slashing at the torso of a mannequin, then retreated perfectly back to his initial position.

“Be with you in a moment,” the older man answered, not bothering to turn his head, or even so much as flit his eyes to the blurry shadow in his periphery _as he struck_ the dummy once more. His servant bowed shallowly, exiting without a sound, leaving the room with a strange, stagnant air, only interrupted by the sounds of the sword.

“Indeed.” Jim snaked his hands into his pockets, almost numb. The _idea_ was one thing, but actually being in the man’s presence, without a _weapon_ , without a bodyguard, or even a sniper watching. _What on Earth was I thinking?_

Watching with some fascination, Jim noted that it was nothing like seeing _Sherlock_ move. Sherlock was graceful, elegant, with an air of spontaneity. Occasionally clumsy, and impatient, but Jim could never _predict_ him, which was beautiful.

The eldest Holmes, however, was _refined_. Calculated. Technique flawless. Like watching a well-oiled and maintained machine.

Mycroft stopped after another two rounds, stopping precisely, not a muscle out of place. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath, lowering the sword in a quick swiping motion, at his side. He shuffled his feet, standing straight before turning to Jim.

Not a single wrinkle in his uniform.

“Mr. Moriarty…” Mycroft sniffed, taking a rag from his pocket, dabbing at his forehead. “How good of you to drop by. May I ask what this is about, or is this purely a social visit?”

Christ. Jim bit the inside of his cheek hard, trying to deal with such _rubbish._ “You’re so smart — you should know why I’m here.”

Mycroft smiled, too self-satisfied, raising his blade, inspecting the end as he replied in abored tone, “I find ultimatums tend to bring out the most _adventurous_ in people.”

Jim hid a scowl, only letting the slightest bit of annoyance over his eyebrow. “Was this your ultimate plan, then? To lure me here?”

The taller man shook his head. “Even _I_ am not so omniscient. Though, I _do_ have people working on that.”

“So you were serious on that threat?”

“I hardly joke about work, Mr. Moriarty.” He walked over the the corner of the room, where Jim only just realized there were other foils and equipment. “And I _never_ joke about my dear brother’s safety.” He pulled a second sabre off where it was mounted on the wall, walking back, wielding duel blades at his sides.

“I’m hardly the _worst_ threat that’s ever crossed his path.”

“No?” Mycroft tilted his head, stopping in front of the man. “Do you not realize that you have been the _root_ of most of said threats?”

Jim bristled, taking a begrudging step back. He swallowed, Mycroft offering the hilt of the second blade to Jim’s left side. “Do you fence, Mr. Moriarty?”

The shorter man huffed, wetting his lips, taking the pistol grip roughly. “Not often.”

“Well, some of it is practice, some of it is skill. The rest is mental prowess.” He tapped the tip of the blade on the ground, returning loftily to the padding. Jim shrugged out of his jacket, folding it and setting it carefully on the ground. He followed after, taking the proper stance, about ten feet from the other man.

Somehow he’s less terrified on the mat than he was when he _wasn’t_ engaged in combat with the man.

“ _Allez_.” Mycroft nods, both of them not daring to move for a moment, frozen in calculating ire.

After a beat, Jim swallows. “Either you want to arrest me, or you want to protect him. Which do you want more?”

Mycroft frowns, advancing a few steps, Jim standing his ground. “I protect Sherlock first. Then England. Both, if at all possible.” He tapped his blade experimentally at Jim’s, forcing the smaller man to flinch away, over-reacting to a hit that never came.

The older man takes that opening, slashing Jim across the chest. “ _Touché_.”

“Point.” Jim conceded, looking down at the point, a line of fire blossoming over his pectorals.

Mycroft retreats back to his starting position, Jim doing the same. “ _Allez._ ”

Jim takes an experimental step forward, Mycroft mirroring the exact same measure backward. “My brother is abnormally attracted to danger. Drugs.” He stepped forward. “Promiscuity for a time.” Another step, lunging forward into a feint, Jim panicking and parrying too far away from his body.

“Getting in fights with criminals.” However, in a similar blunder, Mycroft withdrew, form training not accounting for such a thing. Back on his feet properly, he continued, “And now… you.”

“And I’m as bad as all those things?” Jim grinned, speeding forward, landing a blow on Mycroft’s shoulder. “ _Touché._ ”

“Point.” Mycroft retreated, winding out his shoulders.

“But really… we’ve got each other. I tell him to keep _off_ the drugs. He does get so dull when he’s high.”

“ _Allez_.” Mycroft growled, trying a similar move of speeding up, lunging quickly. But Jim was prepared, stepping forward with a masterful parry, the older man’s sabre now pointing at the wall, eyes looking up at Jim from his lowered vantage point.

“So what if he’s doing his very best to put the criminals away. A bit dangerous, but… well, it’s for the good of the motherland, is it not?” They stay locked for a moment, pressing their strength into the metal. But neither gives, both stepping back at the same time.

“That’s not how he sees it.”

“I don’t see how that matters. The result is the same.” Jim stepped forward.

“Is it really?” Mycroft quirked a brow, retreating half a foot.

“He doesn’t let cases lie. He makes sure everyone sees ‘justice.’”

“Except you.”

“Except me.” Jim shrugged, “But really, what gain would that net you? Power vacuums are risky. Even more dangerous. Best to have a man on top of it all, hm?”

“You _know_ I can’t agree to that.” Mycroft advanced, lunging hard, striking at the hip.

Jim blocked, but stumbled back, losing his balance. Mycroft all but _ran_ , taking the moment, suddenly in Jim’s face, forcing the criminal to back up hastily, tripping over his own feet, falling to the ground, sabre clattering out of his hand.

Mycroft lifted his blade, point resting neatly over Jim’s nose. “And you’ve already promised to kill him.”

“Perhaps my mind has changed.” Jim suggested, pupils dilated and fixed on the point.

“I find it hard to believe anything so basic as _sex_ could sway your judgement.”

“He’s different than I thought. Yet still everything I expected.”

“I imagine he thinks the same of you.”

Jim wets his lips, eyes shifting from the sword, back up to Mycroft. “I make him happy. Isn’t that enough?”

A loaded pause, stagnation returning, charged with potential energy. Jim didn’t even dare breathe.

Mycroft let his face fall into a grimace, withdrawing the sabre, stalking off to the far corner once more, putting up his sword.

Jim pushed up onto his arms, standing, dusting off his trousers. “You haven’t taken the point.”

The taller man doesn’t turn. “No. I haven’t.”


End file.
